Post-Traumatic
by okright
Summary: An android detective walks into a crime scene only to be met with a freshly-deceased body and yet another deviant case. The missing piece to the puzzle? You, a traumatized young woman who just wanted to live a simple life with her Therapy Android. But life is never simple, as you soon find yourself falling for a certain detective while chaos erupts around Detroit.
1. Acquiring Android

**SEPTEMBER 14, 2038**

. . . . .

"Given your history and present surge in panic attacks, anxiety, paranoia—"

You glance around the room, noting the wall devoted to children's drawings, a bookshelf stacked high with boxes full of stress balls, trauma workbooks, and play sand. You like therapy, you truly do. Diana's small office is the only place where you truly feel safe. You just hate the formality of it all. The detachment.

"—I would suggest you look into a Therapy Android."

You turn to curiously examine her face, finding nothing but a stark level of seriousness.

"What, like a therapy dog?"

"If a therapy dog had all the capabilities of an actual psychologist and opposable thumbs, yes."

You sit for a moment, weigh out your options. Maybe having company around the apartment will be good for you, especially if that company is equipped to deal with your mood swings and mental breakdowns. On the other hand, your days of being alone would be over and you would stay on perpetual suicide watch. But you're willing to hear her out.

"Alright. I'm listening."

It takes twenty minutes for Diana to set up a meeting with a nearby shop, an android already set aside for you to pick up after you leave the comfort of her office.

Looking through a shop window to buy something that looks and acts and sounds so human makes you ill. The android will be covered by your medical insurance, and the only thing that keeps you from running the other way is knowing that you will give it a good life. You heard the stories. Androids bought just to become abused slaves to careless owners. As outlets to alcoholics whose families grew tired of being punching bags.

If it meant saving one of them from that existence, you lack the willpower to deny your counselor's request.

The salesman rattles on about the unending features of the TA300, Cyberlife's new subset of care-taking, specifically mental health, prototype. One that you'll become a few of the first to try, given Diana's coercive abilities and your connection to Better Life's new program that maintains a promise to get you back on your feet in no time, despite childhood "difficulties", as they tactfully put it.

Pfft. Good fucking luck.

Your chosen android stares straight ahead, a smattering of freckles across dark skin, curly hair tied back into a low ponytail. Wide brown eyes glance over at you, and you manage a smile as the salesman begins speaking to her. From this close, you can see every pore on her face, every carefully-placed freckle, the golden specks in her eyes.

How can a machine look so human?

"Do you have a name picked out?" You realize the salesman is addressing you, and you quickly straighten your spine and lose your smile.

"Uh, not really. I always thought they came with names."

"We have a book of them if you need assistance."

"No," you reply, contemplating for a short moment before you say, "I know what to call her." A good way to honor your sister's memory.

The salesman turns to her and says, "TA300, register your name."

He nods you over to stand directly in front of her and say her name, and she quickly responds.

"My name is Sylvia." She steps off of the platform and regards you. "Your case file has already been registered to my database. I look forward to helping you heal."

Her caring words contrast with the blank expression on her face, and the action borders on creepy.

No, not borders. It downright is.

"I'll get the paperwork set up and then you can be on your way," the salesman pipes up, moving to shuffle behind the counter at the front of the store.

Sylvia walks beside you, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her shoulders too squared, back too straight to look remotely comfortable. But then she looks at you, breaks into a smile that doesn't quite fit her face, as if she's thawing from a century spent in an iceberg and is trying to communicate with a species recently introduced to her. It makes sense, after all. She majors in analysis of the human brain, in psychology and fact. Comfort isn't what Cyberlife built her for.

"Your brain waves and increased heart rate suggest you are anxious," she says, voice deep and smooth like spilled-over honey. "Come here."

Oh. So you were wrong about her not being built for comfort.

She wraps a strong arm around your shoulders and pulls you against her, the slight chill of her skin surprisingly nice and safe, and doesn't release you as you awkwardly sign your name with a crooked arm.

Trouble begins as soon as you step outside, a group of protesters barking at anyone in their sights.

"It's alright," she coos, as you immediately step behind her and grab onto the sleeve of her jacket. "I won't let them hurt you."

Before leaving the store, you asked her to install a language package to mimic more human dialect. It seems to only work at certain times, however.

"Well, lookie here. An android made a human its bitch."

Sylvia pushes you further behind her as a menacing man steps in front of your path, blocking you off from the only bus stop in the area.

"I suggest you leave us alone if you know what's good for you," she smoothly replies, tilting her head as her LED flickers an angry red. Except she can't feel anger. At least, you don't think.

The group laughs, a mocking cacophony that has you grabbing her by the arm and yanking her away before the situation escalates further.

She stops you around the corner of a shop, the park directly in your sights.

"I would have protected you, you know."

You dig into the pocket of your faded green coat with shaking fingers before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"Why? So they could beat the shit out of you?" You meet her eyes and inhale, smoke coating your lungs and easing the elephant-like pressure inside your chest. Her LED flickers to yellow as she casts a glance over your face. Something akin to curiosity shines in her eyes before she blinks it away.

"Why would that matter? I don't feel pain. Plus, you are my only obligation now."

In one sentence, you deeply regret following your therapist's advice. You didn't want to be anyone's obligation. Anyone's burden. Previous evidence piles atop a mountain of thoughts that Sylvia would lay down her life to protect you, and that you now shoulder a responsibility that you were never prepared to take on.

"While we're on the subject, smoking is very dangerous for the organs of the human body, and results in numerous cancers, rotting teeth—"

"You think I smoke because I enjoy it?" You scoff, flicking the ashes from your cigarette. "I smoke to die." At the look of horror on her face (you have to remind yourself it isn't real), you stifle a laugh and pat her on the shoulder. "Sheesh. I'm kidding, Sylvia. It just calms my nerves. It's not like I actually have a death wish."

"Your previous hospital records from the past decade indicate otherwise."

"Okay, uh, you weren't supposed to take any of that seriously."

She blinks and follows you to the park, where you dispose of the butt in a nearby trash can. "Oh. I see. Those were rhetorical statements."

You shake your head, unable to suppress a warm smile, and motion for her to follow with a wave of your hand. Maybe this whole android thing wasn't such a bad idea after all. "C'mon. Let's go home."


	2. Calculating Escape Route

As soon as you open the door to your apartment, you immediately regret it. The sparse space screams mentally unstable inhabitant: week-old dishes, take-out boxes strewn haphazardly along the coffee table, piled up laundry. Sylvia's LED flickers yellow as she scans the open kitchen/living room layout, and you shrink into yourself with flushed cheeks and a frown.

"I like the contrast of colors," she comments, ambles over to the white couch covered in red pillows, where she pauses to survey the art on the far wall overlooking the television. "Are you an artist?"

A relieved sigh bubbles up in your chest at her respectful ignorance of the mess surrounding you. "I dabble."

"You like to paint flowers."

You move to stand beside her and follow her gaze to a large still life painting you had created two years ago inside a local hospital. "Yeah. They've always intrigued me. How they grow back year after year despite being stamped down or cut out, as long as they're still…. rooted to the ground, ya know."

She hums, a serene smile brightening the freckles on her cheeks. "You see yourself in them."

Your whole world seems to tilt on its axis at her comment. Does she see you in them? On the days where you can't manage to even get out of bed, the beauty and resilience of flowers sit alone on your living room wall, lost to you like the rest of the outside world.

But then again, you always do get out of bed.

"Maybe more than I thought?" A question that leaves you quite literally scratching your head while Sylvia seems unbothered and moves on to whatever else has just caught her attention.

Which now happens to be the mountain of dishes. Goddamn it.

"Have you been feeling mentally unwell lately?" Her voice takes on a professional tone, and she turns to look back at you with an expressionless face, again reminding you that she isn't exactly human.

"Um, yeah. Was it that obvious?" You collapse onto the couch and turn on the television, uncomfortable with watching her judge the unkempt state of your home.

"I am simply observing your habitat to cross-reference data so I know the best approach for your care. No judgement from me." How did she…? Oh, right. All-knowing machine. "I can sense your exhaustion. Feel free to rest while I clean up."

You quickly stand and rush over to where she reaches for a dishcloth. "No, you don't have to do that."

"I know, but I want to." Then she smiles, vulnerable and pleading, and rests a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Let me help you like I was designed."

The whole situation feels wrong, scrapes at your insides and leaves you sick to your stomach. So many things she didn't have to do, but her program deemed necessary. You aren't sure if you feel blessed or offended that Cyberlife programmed her to work as a part-time maid. Did they think that lowly of people like you?

A resigned sigh relaxes your body and you shuffle to the couch before collapsing into the mess of pillows. It isn't long before sleep takes you despite how strong you fight it, Sylvia's quiet humming and arranging of dishes lulling you into a state of peace.

* * *

 **SEPTEMBER 23, 2038**

. . . . .

"I heard a noise. Are you okay?"

You wave her away with a bloody hand as you scoop up broken glass, the shards cutting into your knees.

"I'm fine. Just go. Please."

When she doesn't leave and instead comes to your aid, you bite out a curse.

"I apologize, but your order directly conflicts with my protocol."

Protocol. Of course.

She catches your hand, surveys it with a furrowed brow as her LED spins yellow, then glances around the room, processing the situation.

"You didn't mean to knock it over, but you tripped. This angel statue was important to you. The prints indicate that it was a family member's, a sister." She pauses for half a second. "Her name was… It was Sylvia."

A fresh sob erupts from your chest and she wastes no time in pulling you to her, the soothing motion of her hand rubbing over your back successful in lessening your shivers.

She pulls you to your feet and brushes glass from bloody knees as if caring for a rowdy child, apologizing when you hiss and jerk away.

"Would you like me to take you to your desk while I get this cleaned up? You still haven't finished your art piece. Afterward, I can bandage your wounds."

You quickly nod your head, needing to escape for a little while. Anything to take your mind off of the disaster of today.

She helps you over the glass and leaves you to collect a broom and dustpan in the kitchen, and you quickly take a seat at your messy desk.

Creating art is a sloppy affair, and you make plenty of mistakes that have you cursing and wanting to rip up the paper, but the faint sound of brush on canvas and the smell of paint carries you away from the anger burning inside your chest. At yourself, at your parents, unfairly at Sylvia, who's been nothing but kind and understanding (within her parameters, of course) since you brought her home.

After a long while, you feel Sylvia standing over your shoulder, hovering, as if afraid to speak or interrupt you.

"How are you feeling?" she finally asks, LED a sharp blue as she leans against the corner of your workspace.

"Better," you mutter, lean back to show her the finished piece with a flourish of your arm. "It's you. Do you like it?"

She tilts her head, a soft smile curling her lips, and roves her eyes across the painting.

"I…" her smile falters. "I like it, even though I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Androids aren't supposed to have opinions." Her brow furrows until she looks and sees the crestfallen look on your face. "Oh well. I like it anyway."

You pass the canvas to her, fingers brushing against hers for a moment, just long enough for you to crave another hug. "It's yours. You can hang it up in your room, if you want."

Her LED flashes red for a split second before she stares at you with an expression akin to awe. "Oh. Thank you. I'll take good care of it."

Later that day, you head out to run some errands despite the torrential downpour of rain that drowns the city in dark clouds and empty streets.

"Get some candy, Sylvia."

The android turns to you inside the candy shop you've found yourselves in, decorated like an old-timey store that resonates with the starving child inside you. She walks over to the corner of the room, inspects a sign that reads ANDROID CANDY, and stoops down to peruse the pitifully small selection.

"What flavor should I get?" she asks as you walk over, arms full of handmade chocolate bars.

"I always go for the red flavors, like cherry."

She hums in thought and picks up one circular piece of cherry-flavored candy, sealed in a clear wrapper with a stamp of the local company's logo.

You release a sigh and nudge her with an elbow. "Syl, they're ten cents. Get, like, ten if you want."

And then you realize what you just did and halt on your way to the cash register. You just gave her a nickname.

She passes by you, both hands filled with different flavored candies, seemingly unbothered by your display of accidental affection.

"If we want to get home before the sun sets, we should leave now," she calls to you, the sound of her voice breaking apart your train of thought that had quickly veered off the tracks.

* * *

 **NOVEMBER 5, 2038**

. . . . .

After a few months of camaraderie, you both fall into a nice routine. A push and pull dynamic in which you've both perfected the timing and know how to navigate the empty space around each other. It's nice, sharing a space with someone again. Not being suffocated by loneliness all the time.

Of course, all good things must come to an end.

You settle down for bed after a long day of home therapy, which Better Life prioritized in Sylvia's program. Not leaving your house and getting to vent all your weekly problems? A match made in heaven.

A heavy knock at your door prompts you out of bed and into the living room, where your android friend has already powered down for the night to install a large update. Oh well. It's probably just someone locked out of their apartment.

In a tired stupor, you look out of the peephole and, upon seeing nobody there, open the door to look into the hallway to hopefully catch the culprit.

Something crashes into you, a hard body that sends you reeling backward and slipping on the slick hardwood under fluffy socks. Blood pounds in your ears, chest heaving with ragged breaths as you try to scamper away from the attacker.

Then you hear his voice, rough and gravelly just like you remember, and you freeze in place as the door slams shut with such force that it rattles your teeth.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for knocking you over, but I didn't know how else to get in here," he coos, crouching down to brush boney knuckles across your cheek. "I just wanna talk."

You can't speak can't breathe can't think of anything but run get out get away danger **danger DANGER!**

"Dad?" You cringe at the fear in your voice, and he only smiles in response, hovering over you with the barely functional body of a corpse, discolored flesh pulled tight over bruised bones.

"I'm here now. It's okay." Then he wraps an arm around your shivering figure, laughs at your chattering teeth, comments that you sound like one of those wind-up toys created back when he was little.

Of all the people you never wanted to see again, your father reigned number one. And now, here he resides, somehow having picked the lock to his cell inside your brain and jumped back into the real world to greet you the only way he's ever known how.

You hate him.

"What are you doing here?" you whisper, sounding like the little girl that lives inside the bones of your ribcage, screaming and screaming and screaming for her release. And now she takes center stage, and you can't feel anything but the tight press of sharp angles digging into your skin, your father not even human anymore but an amalgamation of every single phobia you had pocketed like pieces of scrap paper on your road to adulthood.

"I missed you. Isn't that a good enough reason?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the flicker of Sylvia's LED and the tenseness of her body as she surveys the situation. You shake your head when she tries to move from the corner of the room, and your father presses you angrily to the cold floor, your head immediately swimming on impact.

"So I'm not good enough anymore, huh?" He violently shakes you, only stopping when he hears you start to cry. "I love you more than anything in this world. Can't you see that? Why do you keep pushing me away?"

His words force your body into action, and you kick his spindly form away before staggering to your feet and sprinting toward the bedroom. You don't get far, crying out when he latches onto your leg and sends you tumbling to the floor.

"Let her go!" Sylvia's voice resonates within your head under a layer of cotton and clouds, and then she screams even louder. "I said let her go!"

Your father cries out and the pressure on your shin is released, giving you a thin window to look for either a hiding place or an escape inside your bedroom. Sylvia quickly follows you, barricading the door with a heavy dresser before coming to your frantic aid.

"Syl, whatever you do, don't hurt him."

Her LED remains a constant red, reflected in the dark brown of her eyes.

"That directly conflicts with my protocol."

"No, listen, if you kill him, the police will hunt you down and deactivate you. Who's gonna keep me safe then?"

"That—I can't—" Her demeanor changes in an instant to an anger that furrows her brow and clenches her jaw so tight that her synthetic teeth sound like they make break. "No. I'm not letting him hurt you. Stay here."

"Sylvia?" you call to her retreating back as she shoves the dresser aside and opens the door, moving into the living room with a panic you've never seen her possess.

You scramble to your feet and follow her, only to find a large knife in her hand and your father slowly advancing, the low light accentuating deep hollows in his cheeks that make him look even more skeletal and deadly.

"Sweetheart, I'd call off your fucking robot if I were you." His voice echoes against the white walls, a warning tone you've heard over the course of your childhood. You know what that voice entails. "When I'm finished with her," he turns to look over his shoulder, a mistake that he quickly realizes when Sylvia darts out and imbeds the knife into his chest.

You float away after that, safe from the squelching of blood and wheezing breaths and the sound of a female voice. The touch of cool hands on your face.

And then you realize you're crying, hiding behind the couch like a tiny little child. Except you aren't a child anymore. You're a fucking coward who couldn't even kill your father with your own hands. Someone else had to do it for you. Until the very end of his life, he had the leash wound tight and crushing against your neck, able to influence you and guilt you until he took his last breath.

"Hey, come back to me. You're safe now. He isn't going to hurt you anymore."

It takes a moment register the wetness on her cheeks before you realize she's crying. Sylvia, an android who should not have been capable of emotion, is crying because she's… sad? Relieved? Both things you find in the dark pools of her eyes. They feel alive. She feels alive.

"Syl, what did you do?"

"I don't know, but I messed up. I just… I couldn't stop thinking about what he put you through, how much you suffered because of him, and I couldn't follow my instructions anymore. I couldn't listen to anybody else because I knew what I had to do."

You collapse into her arms and stain the bloody material of her t-shirt with tears. The stories on the news about deviants flash behind your eyelids, about the Deviant Hunter and how he stops at nothing to capture them. And now Sylvia is one, is in danger, all because of you.

A knock at the door causes you both to jump and break apart, but the faint yell of "Detroit Police, open up!" springs you to life.

"Sylvia, go!" you hurriedly whisper, pushing her toward the window and, subsequently, the fire escape leading to her freedom.

"I'm not leaving you."

"Goddamn it, we'll find each other later." You whip your head around at the pounding coming from the hallway. "Now go. And be careful."

She pauses, worry creasing the lines of her forehead, unable to leave your side despite the growing threat to her safety.

"Always," she mutters with a smile, fresh tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, then gives you a quick hug and ducks out the window.

You rush over to the door and open it, already knowing why the goddamn police came.

"Ma'am, is everything alright?" the cop on the left asks after a moment of surprise washes over his face, peering over your shoulder and into the apartment. "We got a disturbance call that came from this apartment."

"I…" You pause to take a deep breath. You've always been terrified of police, their uniforms reminding you of the worst days during your childhood, when your dad would beat your mom so severely that neighbors had to interfere. "My father came over, high on red ice, and attacked me. I had to defend myself."

The two officers share a wary glance before regarding you.

"Let's get you out of here, alright? My partner would like to ask you a few questions about what went on here tonight. He'll get you somewhere safe," the man who previously spoke assures, voice slow and calm, gauging the look of bewilderment and fear on your face.

The man's partner introduces himself as Officer Miller and escorts you fully out of the building to an ambulance, commenting on the nasty bruise and large gash on your forehead. Police lights blur your vision, drill a migraine into your skull as an EMT seats you on the lip in the back of his vehicle before tending to your wound.

Officer Miller fires off rounds of increasingly difficult questions, the pain in your head causing your memory to stub up like a misbehaving horse.

In your peripheral, you see the illumination of a blue triangle, then weary eyes lock onto a jacket that reads ANDROID on the back.

Oh, god. It's him. If he's here, they must already know pieces of your story aren't fitting into the puzzle.

You just hope Sylvia's okay.

Within a few minutes, the android and his partner exit your apartment complex and make a beeline toward you. You avert your gaze as they approach, then hear a gruff voice ask, "This her?" before Officer Miller confirms his question.

"I already got her statement—"

"Connor has a few more questions for her, so if you don't mind…"

The officer takes your arm with a mumbled apology and escorts you to the back of his squad car, tension winding inside your gut as he closes the door and drives you to the precinct.

"Don't worry," he says after parking the car, opens the door for you, "I'm sure they just wanna get the details right."

But you know that they know. That this Connor knows you aren't revealing the full truth. Not knowing what you're up against terrifies you.

Soon you find yourself sitting in a cold metal chair, one wrist handcuffed to the table to keep you from moving or trying to escape.

Connor strides into the interrogation room with a certain aloofness that makes you shiver, his dark gaze sweeping over the contents of your case's file. All for show. You know he doesn't need a debriefing.

"Hello," he greets you, tone polite, almost singsong, as he sits across from you, "my name is Connor. What's yours?"

You bite your tongue against the you already know my name that bubbles up in your throat, and answer him honestly to keep from arousing suspicion.

He passes some photos over to you that have you immediately closing your eyes. Your father, covered in blood, chest carved like a Thanksgiving turkey from the knife Sylvia brandished.

"You didn't commit this crime, did you?" His voice rings warm to your ears, soothing the horrible migraine brewing at both temples. "I analyzed the murder weapon, and your prints were nowhere to be found. In fact, there were no prints." At your silence, he continues. "A TA300 was registered to your name two months ago. We searched the apartment and it was nowhere to be found."

"Her name is Sylvia."

Goddamn it. Why did you have to open your big fucking mouth? You were planning on keeping a passive role in your own interrogation but here you are, throwing verbal jabs at the android holding your future in the palm of his hand.

"So, you've grown close to this android?"

"I—yes." You finally dare to look up at him, blinking at the sight of his brown eyes, just a shade darker than hers. "But she had nothing to do with it."

He tilts his head, LED whirring for a split second before he responds, his voice having lost all softness and replaced with a harsher tone. "Then where is it?"

You tense up, silently cursing to yourself because he most definitely saw that.

"I don't know. She installed a software update and left the apartment before my dad came." Not a complete lie, but the way he narrows his eyes leads you to believe he isn't buying it.

Connor leans forward in his chair, folds his arms atop the table, and sweeps his eyes over your figure, still in your pajamas.

"The blood on your clothes does not match the trajectory of blood spatter from knife wounds, especially with how severe these were." He taps a photo with his finger, never breaking eye contact. "The probability of your involvement is less than two percent." Connor tilts his head again, an action that you would find endearing in literally any other context but this one. "Now. Tell me, what really happened?"

You slouch forward, far enough to get your point across. "I told you what happened."

A smile curls the corners of his lips, so realistic that your heart skips a few beats.

"You told me what it wanted you to tell me." As if in sync, you both settle back against your chairs, you in exhaustion and him to convey a more relaxed posture, almost cocky. "Deviants are dangerous. They do not feel human emotion, only mimic it, despite what this Sylvia has led you to believe."

The way he says her name with such disdain makes venom gather inside your mouth. After what you saw tonight, the simple possibility of doubt at the sincerity within her emotions never crossed your mind. You know what game he's playing. It was your father's favorite.

You lean over the metal table, close enough to the android to touch the glowing triangle on his jacket. "Strings of code and strings of DNA are two sides of the same coin. Whether simulated or not, deviants believe they can feel. Who are you to tell them that it's wrong?"

His gaze hardens, and he mimics your previous movement, face now inches away from yours. A game of cat and mouse, predator versus prey, circling around each other like two lions fighting over a piece of meat.

"After searching extensively through your records, I've concluded that there is nothing positive about having emotion. Maybe I'm simply sparing them from a painful existence."

Then he leans back in his chair, and the smirk on his lips smacks you across the face, reminds you that he is simply a machine designed to complete a task through any means necessary. Too bad you've just thrown a wrench into his plans.

"I'm not telling you shit." Your anger gets the best of you, and if you weren't shackled to the table, you would have leapt over it and strangled the android before he could even blink.

Or, at least, you like to think you would.

He nods his head and rises from his chair, regarding the people behind the glass with an "I'm done". But you know better. Until he gets the information he wants, he won't leave you alone.

A group of men crowd around the door as Officer Miller uncuffs you and helps you rise to your feet.

"You're not arresting me?" you ask, turning to look at the man.

"Connor confirmed you acted in self-defense," he replies, dipping his head in a slow nod.

Your gut screams that something isn't right about this, and you quickly agree.

"Get her out of here, Miller. We're not getting anything anyway," the scruffy, grey-haired man grumbles, stepping aside as you walk through the door and out into the hallway. Another man stops you with a smirk and crossed arms, and you gulp. Not this, not so soon after seeing your dad. "Fuck out of the way, Reed, you piece of shit."

He steps aside, too, and allows you to pass without a word. Piercing eyes dig into your back until you turn the corner and exit the police station.

Sadly, you have nowhere to go. Your apartment is an active crime scene, and your agoraphobia has kept you from friendships altogether so no crashing on anybody's couch for the time being.

A sleazy motel it is, then.


	3. Finding Solace

**NOVEMBER 6, 2038**

4:32 A.M.

The concept of safety always seemed so out of reach, regarding you as a hitchhiker in need of a ride but never willing to pick you up and bring you to town. Every night, the car would pass by, taking with it what dignity and comfort you had left to spare until your tank ran empty.

But now, you see with a fresh pair of eyes. The unwillingness to let go of the traumas that plagued you night after night. Your inability to realize that your father held a sickness within him that unconditional love simply could not cure.

The safety that swaths you in fresh linens and sings you age-old lullabies since Sylvia killed him.

Your outfit, a t-shirt and cotton shorts and a simple pair of sneakers, fails to protect your figure from the downpour, and it isn't long before you begin to shiver. Before Officer Miller ushered you outside, you snagged your wallet, phone, and a thin jacket, unable to foresee the dramatic turn of tonight's events. But even with your pot of luck drained dry, a fire has been lit anew inside your chest, your standoff with Connor fanning the embers of confidence that you lost hope of finding years ago.

You glance at the time on your cell and sigh. 4:32 am. The incident must have happened later than you thought, as it only took half an hour for the police to arrive before Officer Miller escorted you to the precinct. And you had just recently left.

A horn honks at you, startling you into action, which results in a dropped phone against the pavement.

"What the fuck are you doing, kid?" You recognize the voice belonging to Lieutenant Anderson, which only causes you to glance around to see who else he might be talking to. The horn blares again. "Get off the goddamn sidewalk before you freeze to death."

"I have nowhere to go," you explain, voice straining from having to scream over the rain. "The nearest motel is a mile away, and I won't be able to make it that far."

The only noise for a long minute comes from the sputtering of his car, and then he groans.

"God-fucking-damn it. See, this is why I don't ever stop on my way home. This fucking shit right here. 'Cause every time I do, I always end up with an empty tank of gas and an ungrateful little prick stealing my wallet." As he rants to himself, furiously sifting through radio stations, you wonder how many times that situation truly happened to him. "Get the fuck in, kid." When you don't move, he honks his horn yetagain."Before I change my mind. Any day now!"

You sprint around the front of his car, water sloshing all the way up to your thighs, and hop into the passenger seat. The warm air that hits your face makes you sigh in relief.

"You didn't have to do this, but thank you. I don't know how to repay you."

"Oh, I know." You freeze at his words, immediately reaching for the doorknob, before he points at a dinky bar. "We're gonna go in there, and you're gonna buy me a shot… or ten. How's that sound?"Much better than what you expected."After all, I just got off one android case before the entire third floor ofyourapartment called with noise complaints. And what does Connor find out? We got another fucking deviant on our hands." He shakes his head and pulls into a parking space right off the street.

To be frank, Lieutenant Anderson terrifies you. His voice rings too loudly in your ears and the frequency of his cussing makes him seem soangry.

You aren't a fan of angry men.

Even so, you follow him inside the bar and lay down a twenty onto the counter to satisfy him while you use the bathroom and collect your thoughts, jumbled as they are. Now, you only have eighty bucks to your name, are effectively homeless for the time being, and have only the clothes on your back to keep you warm. As you wash your hands, you idly thinkwell, this night couldn't get any worse.

You join the Lieutenant at the bar, hopping onto a well-worn stool and trying but failing to ignore the way the bartender glowers at you.

"Hank, what the fuck are you doing bringing kids in here?"

"I'm twenty-three, actually," you reply, noting the slightly amused grin on Hank's face. "I have I.D. if you need it."

The bartender snorts and passes you a glass. "No need. You drink?"

As politely as one can manage, you scrunch up your face at the offer and say, "I'm more of a smoker."

He hums, surveying your face for a moment before reaching under the counter and handing you a cigarette.

"You sure?" you ask, pausing as you reach for it.

"Eh, you look like you've had one hell of a night." He points to his forehead, and you shrink under the connotation. "It's on the house."

"Thank fuck," you groan, pulling a lighter from the pocket of your jacket. "I was about to go crazy. You, my friend, are a saint."

He laughs at the comment, throws the dish towel in his hand over his shoulder. "I like her, Hank. You should bring her here more often."

You glow at the praise, returning his smile for the first genuine time within the past twelve hours.

That is, until Hank speaks.

"Not gonna happen, Jimmy." He leans back in his chair and sniffs. "You know a cheap motel anywhere close? One that preferablydoesn'thave bed bugs?"

Jimmy glares incredulously between the two of you before he shakes his head. "You sure you can even get it up at this rate?"

You hop down from your seat and head for the exit, heartbeat heavy and painful in your ears. A person can only take so much in one day, and you've just hit your limit. The snide comments and overbearing personalities and fear that hammers your ribcage inward.

You need Sylvia.Shewould protect you.

Welcome to the real world, bitch. Not what you thought it'd be, huh?

You growl at the mocking voice inside your head, no matter how correct she is about your current predicament.

"Hey! Will you wait just a damn minute?"

"Leave me alone!"

You turn back to gauge how far Hank trails behind you, only to run into something hard that knocks you completely off your feet.

"Oh, goddamn it, Connor, really?" the man exasperates, coming up behind you.

"I received an urgent message from Cyberlife to detain her." The android nods in your direction, posture stiff and facial expression blank.

"You know what the plan was. Ihadit."

You quickly rise to your feet, ignoring Hank's comment as all the blood drains from your face. "Detain me?! You can't do that!"

He turns to look at you, neon store lights reflecting in deep brown eyes. "You aided a deviant and are at a now seventy percent risk in aiding their cause. I apologize, but my instructions were clear."

"Jesus Christ, Connor, are you serious?" Hank jumps to your rescue and pushes the android back a few steps, unknowingly giving you enough room to breathe.

You step underneath an overhang, where the rain doesn't trickle down the back of your neck. Exhaustion weighs down your eyelids, makes your body feel heavy and numb. Though the latter could be attributed to you being unable to process the last twenty-four hours.

Then you realize they're discussing you, and the discomfort makes you wilt underneath the severity of their conversation.

"Don't you care that the girl is clearly traumatized to the fucking moon and back?" When Connor simply tilts his head to the side, eyes wide in what could be read as confusion, Hank sighs and turns to face you. "Come on, let's get you outta this rain."

"I can't let you do that, Lieutenant—"

"Please," you interject, stepping around the older man and wringing your hands despite their shaking, "just for tonight. I really need some sleep."

Hank scoffs and grumbles, "We all do."

Connor's LED flashes yellow for a moment before he regards you with a furrowed brow and clasped hands. "Cyberlife insists that you don't stay alone. They fear an escape attempt."

Goddamn it.

"She ain't coming to my house," Hank comments, kicking a stray rock into the street. "Don't need any more weird looks from my neighbors. I get enough of those as is."

The brunet turns to you, analyzing your expression, if the flicker of his LED is anything to go by. "I will watch over you tonight, and we will report to the precinct at ten this morning. I expect you to come willingly."

You reach up and tangle cold fingers into your hair, pulling at the strands with a huff. "Don't you have more important things to do than look after me like I'm a toddler? More dangerous deviants to catch?"

"Are you suggesting thatyourdeviant is not dangerous?" The corners of his lips stretch outward in a genuine but failed attempt at friendly communication, and it reminds you of the first time Sylvia had smiled. How unnatural it looked.

Hank darts between you two and grabs him by the arm. "Alright, Connor. If you're done being a smart-ass, get in the damn car."

Half an hour later, after the Lieutenant pays for a room and leaves you to deal with his android, you conclude that Connor was not exaggerating when he said he would watch over you. He sits on the other bed, feet planted flat on the floor, facing you as you watch a late-night cartoon on the aged television.

Instead of simply allowing him to stare at you like the average creep, you turn to him with a nagging question.

"What did Lieutenant Anderson mean when he said 'you know what the plan was'?"

"Captain Fowler became angry that I let you leave, and tasked the Lieutenant with tracking you. He was to bring you back to the precinct."

A brick of betrayal lands hard in your gut. Hank wasn't trying to help you after all.You should have known.

The laugh that escapes your throat drips bitter and weary. "It was stupid to think someone might've cared about me for once in my life."

Connor comes to sit next to you on the bed, LED blinking as he surveys your face.

"If it is any consolation, I find you quite valuable to my investigation." At the fierce glower you give him, he awkwardly returns to his seat on the other bed before glancing around the room. "There is a convenience store around the corner if you would like something to eat."

You stand and shuffle right up to him, toes almost touching his. "Are you gonnafollowme again?"

He smiles at your attempt to intimidate him and rises to his feet, meeting your eyes with an amused tilt of his head. "Naturally."

You quickly back away, gooseflesh rising on your arms at the uncomfortable feel of the android's breath tickling your face. It was your fault anyway, challenging a ruthless machine that would snap you in half and not even bat an eye.

As you follow Connor to the convenience store, you idly compare him and Sylvia. Accidentally, of course, but the differences between the two androids strike you as both confusing and intriguing. How they look so fuckinghuman, yet Syl expressed actual feelings and empathy, while Connor only focuses on hismission, damn everything else. What he doesn't seem to understand, ironically, is thathe'sthe one mimicking human behavior. Not the deviants he tries to detain.

You step into the convenience store, the cashier immediately rolling her eyes at Connor's presence, which sticks to you like super glue. You fetch a protein bar and a bottle of water and check out, the android questioning your choices.

"A salad would be better for you, and would sate your hunger more efficiently."

You plop your items on the counter and wave him away. "Fine. If it worries you that much, go get me a salad."

He returns a moment later and passes the plastic container gently to the employee. She gives you your items and regards Connor with a scowl.

"Don't leave that thing here."

You pause at the exit, white-knuckling the handles of your bag. Anger radiates hot and insistent from your skin. "His name is Connor." Then you step outside, huffing as fresh rain immediately soaks into your clothes, the cold refreshing against heated skin.

Connor stares at you, LED a solid yellow, as both of you walk back to the hotel. You glance over, almost running into a pole from lack of concentration on an unfamiliar street, but wait until he speaks before mentioning anything.

"Why did you defend me?"

There it is.

"Because, even though you're a pain in the ass, nobody should be calling you athing."

"But Iama thing."

His confidence in that statement, the belief in his voice, feels like a cold bucket of water was poured onto your head. It's sad, how insignificant he believes himself to be. Sylvia used to comment about how replaceable she was, thousands of identical androids sitting in a warehouse at the ready in case anything ever happened to her. But nobody isreplaceable, android or otherwise, which is something Cyberlife—and most of humanity—refuses to understand. We all possess memories and thoughts and personalities and imperfections for a reason, and to think that those things can be perfectly replicated is insulting.

You frown. "Is that what Cyberlife told you? Because I can tell you with one-hundred percent certainty that they're fucking wrong."

He says nothing, just allows you to lead the way back to the motel room.

You absentmindedly eat while watching boring infomercials, noting the circular ring on the hosts' temples. After spending so much time with Sylvia, you've become hyper-aware of androids' existence and the suffering that comes with it.

"You should rest. We have to leave in three hours and twenty-two minutes."

With a sigh, you finish your meal and shuffle under the covers, stealing a glance at Connor who reclines back on the bed and looks at—but doesn't really watch—the program playing on t.v., somehow looking even more awkward than before. While you ate, he had slightly loosened his tie and hung his jacket up on the rack next to the door without you noticing, and you suddenly become hyper-aware of just how drenched through your clothes are at seeing him dry and comfortable.

"Tomorrow, I'll need to stop and get an outfit."

He looks over his shoulder at you then says, in the monotonous voice that he uses when relaying facts, "Seeing as you're a suspected accomplice, I can't allow you inside of your apartment."

"Well," you raise up onto an elbow, "can you go insideforme? I can't keep walking around in this, and you know that."

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye before quickly looking away, blinking rapidly. "I will contact Cyberlife and explain the situation."

You sigh in relief, plop your head onto the too-hard pillow, and mutter, "Thank you."

The good thing about an android's presence (or Connor's presence, rather) is the lack of wariness you otherwise have to exert in a human's company. Connor is remarkably predictable, mental state shown to the world by the LED flashing on his temple like a traffic light. Exactly like a traffic light, actually.

That, and he doesn't exude a predatory energy. He simply is what Cyberlife designed him to be, a set of code packaged inside life-like skin, and the thought of how much hisinvestigationkeeps him from experiencing upsets you.

"Get some rest," he states softly, rousing you from a dozing state and confusing thoughts. "We now leave in two hours and forty-six minutes."


End file.
